


Dove Creek, CO

by Morgana



Series: Postcards From the Road [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were still three hundred miles from Albuquerque</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dove Creek, CO

They'd been on the road since ten without a break, six hours of Metallica, Def Leppard, and Led Zeppelin interrupted only by the occasional moment of silence when Dean changed tapes. Sam seriously thought that going deaf might be a blessing, and when "Master of Puppets" cut out mid-chorus, he wondered if he'd gotten his wish, but it turned out Dean had decided to stop the tape.  
  
"You wanna stop and grab something to eat?"  
  
By that point, Sam would've agreed to just about anything for half an hour of silence, but he knew better than to jump at the chance, especially since they were a good three hundred miles from Albuquerque and Dean had already said he wanted to make it there by dark. "Where were you thinking?"  
  
"Dunno." Which was a lie. Dean always knew where he wanted to eat. "Figured we could pull off at the next town and hit a burger stand or something."  
  
Translation: Dean knew of a greasy burger joint near here (not surprising, since his memory when it came to food and places to pick up women was legendary) and he wanted to make stopping there look accidental. Which almost guaranteed that it was the kind of dive where the food was swimming in grease and the closest thing Sam would find to something green was a burger that had been sitting out too long. "Can't we try to find a diner, at least?"  
  
"What's wrong with grabbing burgers?"  
  
"Aside from clogged arteries and the usually dirty spots you pick where the cooks have questionable personal hygiene, you mean?"  
  
Dean snorted. "Jesus, Sammy, talk about a buzzkill."  
  
"What, because I want to eat somewhere  _without_  having to worry about getting hepatitis from our waitress coming within five feet of us?"  
  
"No, because you can't even relax and enjoy a burger without turning it into a production. You're such a prima ballerina."  
  
"That's a girl's title. The male dancers are called danseur nobles," Sam said absently.  
  
There was a long silence. A very long, very  _pointed_  silence. When he realized that Dean hadn't said anything for a good five miles or more, Sam looked up to see his brother gaping at him. "What?"  
  
"Dude."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Just... dude. You actually  _know_  what a frigging  _guy_  ballerina is called?!?"  
  
"Shut up," he shot back without thinking. After a few minutes, he added, "Jess liked ballet, okay?" He'd taken her to The Nutcracker last Christmas, spent three months saving and skipping lunch to afford the tickets, but it had been worth it to see her eyes light up at the magic that unfolded in front of them.  
  
Dean didn't say anything for a while, and Sam didn't glance over at him. He didn't want to see Dean giving him That Look, the one that said his brother knew exactly how broken he was inside, especially since there was nothing either of them could do to make it better. He thought about agreeing to the burger joint, just to get past the sudden awkwardness when Dean huffed, "Still say you don't have to be such a diva about it."  
  
Sam couldn't resist pointing out, "That's also a girl."  
  
"Yeah, well, so are you," Dean shot back. It was a familiar taunt, a variation on a common theme that had been used for years, but instead of infuriating Sam the way it used to, it actually made him feel better. This, at least, hadn't changed.  
  
He wondered if this was what the rest of his life was going to be, riding in the car with Dean, trading comebacks and insults while they crossed the country one greasy burger joint at a time on their way to one hunt after another. And for the first time since he was fourteen, Sam thought that he might be all right with it if it was.


End file.
